We have lots of friends here, many of whom, admittedly, are fictional, like this sweet fellow. Which raises the issue of where the line between fiction and non-fiction resides. Not to mention how to delineate the far more confusing connection between dreams and real life.
My 14-year-old had a dream last night. In his dream, I was dying and in a lot of pain. His Mom, my ex-wife, made a decision to put me out of my misery by slitting my throat. But she did so in such a way that no blood appeared, in his dream, and that helped me, because I professed that I suddenly felt much better.
Nevertheless, her method proved effective, because as he checked my pulse, it faded away to nothingness, so he knew that I indeed was dead. His overwhelming sense of sadness at losing his Dad woke him up, whereupon he discovered it was all only a dream.
Meanwhile, in my bed, I was having my own dream. In it, my parents were still alive, which is always one of the most comforting yet unnerving aspects of any of my dreams. We were all staying in one of the houses I used to own, before I lost them all, but my parents were so very different from the way they actually were when alive.
My mother, for example, was having an affair with a guy in Florida, and couldn't wait to get back to him. My father was lying on the couch, gossiping with his girlfriend over the phone.
I was trying to sort all of this out when I awoke to the relief that none of this had actually happened, except, of course, that the dream represented a strange parallel with the experiences of my children, including my son who would soon be sharing his dream with me.
Thus, I realized, my dream had inserted me into his shoes (and those of all my other dear children). Okay. But, so far, I have not been able to figure what his dream meant. I'll tell you this much. My throat remains safe tonight, and whenever any ex-wives show up, I'll be sure to hide the sharp knives.
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